


A Match Made in Hell

by Ladyfeets



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M, Not Mormor
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-09
Updated: 2017-08-10
Packaged: 2018-12-13 02:54:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11750577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ladyfeets/pseuds/Ladyfeets
Summary: Sebrina Moran and John Watson have a weird heart-to-heart before the pool.





	1. Words Not Yet Spoken

   John Watson floats toward the surface of consciousness. Muzzily half-awake, he thinks for a moment he’s back in Afghanistan - the deep, soothing female voice is singing in Arabic, not Pashto, but he recalls a few phrases from the ‘terps he had worked with.

  _“Hassissan...shu hulween, Amma yaduru hawla ummon mabsuteen ” *_

    Slowly coming to, he realizes he’s immobilized, his arms encased in something fluffy, but tight enough to drive hard material into his ribs. And what the fuck do chickens have to do with anything?

   “ _Sherbu may ... 'alu khay_ \- ah, you’re awake”

   Finally John is able to crack his crusted eyelids open. It all comes back in a flash, the man outside 221, the needle in his neck. He’s lying on a locker room bench wrapped in a parka, of all things, his wrists zip-tied in front of him. On his left, sitting on an upside down shoe caddy, is his captor. A tall, broad woman with caramel skin, pocked and scarred, with a burn mark on her neck. She’s piecing together a rifle -

“Mauser Kar-98k?”

   The woman looks up at him with striking yellow-green eyes, then cracks a wry smile.

“Better than the L85, ‘specially at closer range, wouldn’t you think, Captain Watson?”

“I can’t argue with that. But I’d bet my Sig against your Carlo any day.”

She cocks her head and glares at him. “Hey, be nice, you’re the one tied up here.” Then mumbles, almost under her breath, “I’m not a bleeding terrorist.”

   John shakes his head rapidly, trying to shake off the last of the tranq. “What are you, then?” he asks.

“I’m a sniper. Well, most of the time. Sometimes I’m an interrogator. Sometimes I go get the dry cleaning.”

   John huffs a laugh. “Sounds kind of like me and Sherlock” he says, “If I’m not tackling murderers or taking notes, I’m picking up takeaway and rinsing teacups.”

   Sebrina chuckles heartily. Then turns thoughtful. “Do you love him?” she almost whispers. Watson looks stricken for half a moment, those pretty blue eyes losing focus, going soft and fierce as stormclouds.

“I really do, fool that I am. Got me a semtex tuxedo to show for it. They’re both barking mad, aren’t they?”

“Yeah”, she smiles fondly.

“Do you love him?” John asks.

“Not like you and Holmes”, she crosses her arms and quirks her mouth to the side. “But I think I do, in my own way. That’s why I had to be sure. I know you’ll die for your posh wanker, so I don’t have to worry as much about mine.”

“I suppose that makes some sense.”

Sebrina bites her lip and leans her elbows onto her knees

“Listen, Watson, however this turns out - Jim blows you to bits, I put a bullet through your head, they come to some sort of agreement - if you both come out alive… Tell him, innit? Jim may be a nutter but he’s a smart man. And he knew the one thing to throw Sherlock Holmes off his feet would be to see you in danger. Doesn’t that mean something?”

   Is this utter madwoman, minutes away from training a red dot on his chest, giving John… girl-talk?

“I - this is frankly fucking weird, but I think I will.” John licks his lips and smiles up at Moran. “That is, if you don’t put a bullet through my head.”

   She claps a hand on his shoulder and smiles back. “I would, y’know, for him.”

“SHOWTIME, BOYS!”

The aforementioned posh wanker turns the corner, his new Vivienne Westwood suit impeccable. Sebrina mentally checks to make sure she packed the lint roller, just in case. _Somebody loves you, Sherlock Holmes_ she ponders, trying not to giggle at her boss’ obvious infatuation. _Two of ‘em, damn you_ she thinks again, gazing at Watson.

“Oi, I’m not a boy, Boss!” Moran shouts over her shoulder.

“Well stop flirting, Sebbie. We have a job to do." He rocks up on his heels and claps his hands in excitement. “Release Dr. Watson and get into position.”

   Moran keeps eye contact with John. “Wasn’t flirting. He does look rather fetching all trussed up like this though.” Sebrina smears a lewd glance down Watson’s taut frame. She cuts the zipties on his wrists and rubs them a bit to help with the circulation.

“Best of luck to you, Captain. You’ll need it.”


	2. Ad Ultima Stilla

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He adores when they beg her, ask if she has children, try to appeal to her motherly instincts. Bugger that for a lark, the only person she babied was Jim.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ad ultma stilla - to the last drop. Seb and Jim catch up after a hit.

Moran stumbled into the flat with blood spatter in the distinctive pattern Jim loved most. Thicker spray around her abdomen, then a fine spritz like perfume from a vintage atomizer along her face and collar. Slit throat of someone on their knees. He adores when they beg her, ask if she has children, try to appeal to her motherly instincts. Bugger that for a lark, the only person she babied was Jim.

  
Moran knelt to unlace her boots and toed them off before padding to the kitchen for a glass of water.  
"Everley taken care of?" Jim mumbled sleepily from the sofa.

  
Moran glanced over and took in the sight of her boss, sprawled on the sofa, snifter of brandy on his chest (held with the stem between two fingers, palm down, the posh git), the bottle on the floor next to him.

  
Moran chugged a glass of water, then shuffled through the cabinets for another snifter. It had been a long night. She ended up grabbing a chipped tea mug instead. Plopping down on the floor with her back to the sofa, Moran commandeered the bottle of brandy and poured two generous glugs into her mug.

  
"Cheers, boss"

  
He mm'd dismissively but raised his glass to meet hers.

  
"One of Everley's boys got me good. I'll go see Dr Patel tomorrow if we have time. Cracked rib will slow any geezer down."

  
Jim snuffed. "Oh, you poor dear", he jibed, "go find Mummy to kiss it better, your Da's getting drunk."

  
Moran chuckled into her teacup of brandy.

"I fought tougher before. Old tiger once in India. She'd lost a tooth and you know as well as I, the villagers are easier prey than the jumbucks.  
I was there to take care of a recruiter who was stirring up trouble, but the elder, this salty old Kshatriya, asked me to help and fuck me, if his wife didn't make the best naan..."

"Language, Sebbie"

"Psh. So I got a couple blokes to come along with me to hunt her down. Y'know they wear these masks, on the back of their heads -" Moran ran her hands through her own short dark hair. "Because a cat always attacks from behind. So they say it'll stop a tiger."

She took a thick glug of brandy.

"Nothin' stops a maneater. Ol' girl came right out of the brush, almost killed this kid Tanvir. The boys carried him back to the village, and I followed her into a drain, and, well, that was the fight of my life."

They were both quiet for a few moments. Jim sipped his brandy.

Moran turned to face him suddenly, almost tipping over the mostly-empty bottle.

"I got a helluva scar, y'wanna see?"

Jim giggled drunkenly at her sudden exhuberance. "If you insist", he slurred, but sat up with interest.

Moran pulled down her tank top and sports bra to show an impressively marked chest. Four distinct claw marks from her left collarbone to her right breast, the nipple neatly bisected.

"Lovely", Jim snorted.

"I got her though, in the end." Moran smiled sleepily as she righted her top.

"Course you did" said Jim, laying back again. "You're my little tiger."

"Little? I've got four inches and thirty pounds on you."

"Three"

Moran chuckled and settled with her back against the couch.

"Everley's bloke was fast, all I'm saying. Fought hard. And he's out of a job now, if you're looking for someone."

  
"I have you, Seb, you're worth ten cretins like that."

  
"Well ta very much for that" she snorted. "Top you off?"

  
"Please"

  
Jim, without losing his staring contest with the ceiling, held out his glass. Moran gave him a generous pour, then splashed a few more ounces in her tea mug.

"I do have you, don't I, Sebbie?" It wasn't a question.

  
"Ad ultima stilla, Boss"

**Author's Note:**

> * Ha Seesan is a Palestinian children's song about chickens. In this 'verse my Moran is born into a Palestinian family in Israel but grew up in England. She went back at 18 to keep her citizenship by training with the Israeli Defence Force. Hence why she favors the Mausen. A "Carlo" refers to a Carl Gustav submachine gun favored by Palestinian terrorists in Israel.
> 
> I have a couple more works sitting in limbo starring fem!Seb and her nutty boss.


End file.
